Scent of Memory
by Fair-Ithil
Summary: The scent grows fainter with each passing day and a part of her heart breaks at the thought of losing it; the familiar smell that she associates with comfort, safety, warmth and…happiness. " It's odd what people cling to when they lose someone.


Disclaimer-That's right! I own Ron Weasley! And his pretty little owl too! Mwhawhawha!!!! (gets dragged away by men in white coats)

A/N: I don't know what made me do it. Ron's my favorite character and I would never want him to die in canon and yet here I've gone and killed him. I blame my absurd amount of homework and lack of sleep for this, just like I did when I killed Eowyn. Read, review, no flames please.

* * *

It's been three days since she spilled the perfume. 

Three days since she kicked her mother out of her room and cried for hours.

Three days since Crookshanks scratched her after she threw a book in his direction.

Three days since the fresh wave of sadness settled over her.

She knows she's not dealing with the situation in the best, most logical way. Crying, throwing things, and shutting the world out never got anyone anywhere after all. She knows first hand since it's only three months since it actually happened. But this is different. This time she finds herself stranded in a world that she hasn't belonged to in a very long time, with people who will never fully understand and away from the few people who do. It's almost like losing him again in some childish way, because he gave it her, because it was his peace treaty of sorts to the stupid argument they had when they were fourteen and so young.

It was always a comforting thing, unusual, yes, but undeniably sweet and almost romantic if she ever chose to read it that way. Now, the scent brings no comfort, it's almost unbearable really, the scent of peppermint; overwhelming, sharp and strong, burning her nose and stinging her eyes. Yet she can't bring herself to leave the room even though the smell clings to her dresser as much as it does to the maroon sweater at the bottom of her trunk.

The scent grows fainter with each passing day and a part of her heart breaks at the thought of losing it; the familiar smell that she associates with comfort, safety, warmth and...happiness. The scent that pulls her back to a day that seems to belong another lifetime when he stuttered and stumbled and said she looked pretty before kissing her on the cheek in a very awkward Ron manner. A day when she'd laughed and he'd grinned that wonky lopsided grin of his after she'd said thank you and returned the gesture. To better days that were filled with homework and adventures, and sugar quills by the lake and tea at Hagrid's, and silent confessions made in the dark of an empty kitchen. To days when Harry still smiled, she still cared about the whole world, and Ron was still just **there**

But the bottle's empty now and Harry hasn't smiled in so long. Hagrid's gone, and she can't bring herself to care anymore because the world's celebrates _their victory_, now that Voldemort's been defeated. She still regrets calling him pathetic because he wasn't but she can't tell him that now because he's been dead for three months and she wishes she had told him sooner.

And she'd like to think that he's gone to a better place, where he can play chess or be loud and cheer for the Cannons without anyone scoffing at him, but she's read too many books and knows too well that once the heart stops pumping all that's left is dirt and beetles, and the smell of decaying death. But magic's showed her so much too; like that there is in fact a soul. What else do the dementors thrive off but the misery of the soul after all...but she's far to logical for that and the muggle inside of her ignores that because it's easier to be bitter then to have a bit of hope when all the world is so terribly out of sorts.

Her parents try to understand that her heart's been broken and that she's still mourning for the lost of a friend who was so much more, but they can't. They know she's hurting, like when her Grandmother died and they expect her to go to them and cry on their shoulders and then feel better and move on with life. But it's going to happen. She's hurting, she's already gone to Harry and cried with him and she has no intentions of feeling better because he was so young, so full of promise, and there were feelings between them were never spoken of aloud, leaving her to ponder what might have been. And she weeps at the idea of ever loving someone else, as the every thought seems dirty.

But she's young too, the brightest witch of her time, and she's still alive so she has no excuse except that he'd dead but that seems a bit selfish.

She can't trade her life away for a memory; or worse a fantasy, a picture in her mind of how things should have been because it wouldn't be fair to her or to him.

One day she'll have to move on.

And things will get better; life will get easier, if there was ever such a thing, and she'll get a job and move out, spend Halloween with Harry, Christmas at the Burrow, and if she's strong enough, daisies on a gravestone on the occasional Sunday. Perhaps, though her stomach twist at the thought, one day she'll marry and have children, and grow old and tell stories of how things used to be.

She'll tell stories about him, about how stubborn and rash and... brave he used to be. There's no way around it really, she couldn't leave him out if she wanted to; he simply played too big a part to be left out.

But for right now, it's alight to cry over spilled perfume.

**END**

(runs off to write a happy story where Ron hasn't bought the farm)


End file.
